


Can I Call You...?

by bactaqueen



Category: Marvel Ultimates
Genre: F/M, Light daddy kink, idle fantasy, this is what your date thinks about when you leave her alone to drink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 17:37:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20213668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: There just doesn't seem to be any way to ask a guy if you can call him Daddy without it getting weird.





	Can I Call You...?

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people or events is entirely coincidental. Captain America belongs to Marvel. No infringement is intended and no profit is made.
> 
> **Author’s Note:** I'm not even going to pretend any of my writing has any real value anymore.

There just doesn't seem to be any way to ask a guy if you can call him Daddy without it getting weird. The ones who want it don't deserve it, and the ones that do deserve it don't ask. Sometimes, when you're watching Steve--doing almost anything, really, but especially now, when he’s working the crowd, smiling and shaking hands and posing for pictures, being the version of Captain America these people pay for--you wish he would ask.

You think he could get away with "Who's your daddy?" whispered in your ear as you're pinned, hands on you strong and sure…

"Champagne?"

Your face goes hot. You glance at the waiter but can't meet his eyes. "Yes, please." You trade your empty glass for a fresh one. "Thank you."

A moment later, he's gone, and you're alone again. Surrounded by the crowd. Sipping your drink. Watching Steve.

He's hard to miss. It isn’t only the uniform--the green one tonight, there are foreign investors here, rich and powerful men from Allied countries, ready to bend his ear about granddads and made-up stories about villages across Europe--or his size--he's not the tallest man in the room, but he's close--but his presence. You're not the only one watching him. You're not even the only one watching him with wet panties and dirty thoughts. You shift your weight. These parties aren't your thing, but it’s impossible to say no when he asks. Still, you'd rather be home. On the couch, with him, stealing glances at him, at the way he looks bathed in the blue light of the television.

Or, better yet, in bed. Not looking at him at all because your eyes are closed against the pleasure of it.

Maybe, you think, halfway through your third glass of champagne, feeling warm and buzzed and a little reckless, you could ask him sometime.

"Can I call you Daddy?"

But the imagined whisper conjures the memory of the last partner you asked, the horror and then the disgust on his face, the way he recoiled as if you'd burned him, and it's like having cold water dumped over you.

Some things belong only in fantasy.

You finish off the glass and look around. There's another waiter, this one with another tray of champagne, but you've had enough for now. You need water. Some air.

Steve is in the center of the room, surrounded by the delegation from the Russian oil company. He won't miss you.

You set your empty glass on an abandoned table as you make your way out of the ballroom.

What's wrong with a little fantasy? Nothing, you decide, and snag a bottle of water off of the table near the door. The hallway is empty, and you follow it to the end, where it lets out onto a terrace.

The weather has cleared, Thor’s storm past, so it's cool and damp and the terrace is completely devoid of guests. You find a dry bench near a dark window and have a seat, stare out over the city. You never get used to the view. It's been ten years you've lived here, and the view still takes your breath away and makes you dizzy.

All right. Maybe the dizzy is from the champagne. You open your bottle of water and take a sip, close your eyes and tip your head back.

"Can I call you Daddy?"

But this time it's Steve, and he doesn't recoil. He doesn't look at you like you're something he stepped in. He smiles. Looks at you like you mean something.

"Who's your daddy?"

He could choke you easily. Crush your throat if he wanted. You don't want that. But the weight of his hand on your jaw, guiding you into a kiss. His hand on your throat, making you feel the wild beat of your heart. Maybe across your collarbones, matching the hand on your hip, forcing you to arch your back. Maybe push it down, down, slip his fingers between your legs and strum your clit. Maybe take your fingers from your clit, tangle his with yours, press your hand into the sheets and fuck you just like that, fuck you until you come on just his dick, grinding into the bed, his mouth at your ear.

"Come on. Come for Daddy."

In real life, you suck in a shuddering breath.

The ones who want it think it ends there. Think it's just something to say. But that's not it. You let it go on. Let yourself imagine being tipped, curled around. Steve's mouth on the back of your shoulder, both arms around you. His legs tucked up behind yours, his content sigh against your skin.

"Good girl."

His fingers stroking your arms, and he fits you in against him, snug, so that you're safe. Protected. Because that's what a real daddy does. He keeps you safe. He loves you.

“That good?”

Slowly, you open your eyes. The shadows can’t hide him, not even in the green. You smile sheepishly at him, feeling hot all the way through. Feeling guilty.

He’s more than a fantasy.

“What?”

Steve sits down beside you and takes your water, sets it aside. He smiles, a small, unusually uncertain thing, and he takes your hand. “What you were thinking about. That good?”

“Your adoring public is missing you,” you point out. The slide of his skin against yours electric. It’s hard to breathe.

“My adoring public can go to hell.” He cups both hands around yours, the tips of his fingers stroking gently over your wrist. “Do you want to get out of here?” he asks quietly.

The way he looks right now, the light catching his eyes, the shape of his mouth--it and the electric thrill through you from just the touch of his hands have you leaning in. Kissing him. Unable to help it. His mouth is warm and his lips are soft and he’s surprised. He starts to pull away--and you do, too, panic rising in the back of your mind. What’s wrong with you? Kissing him without warning, without being invited, and in public, too-- Steve stops. His weight shifts. He’s leaning in, and he’s kissing back, lips parting. He lifts a hand to your face and you can’t help the little whimper when he cups your jaw, presses his thumb to your chin to part your lips.

The hand on your wrist slides up until he can cup your elbow. He breaks the kiss, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Is that a yes?”

“Please.” You’re swaying. Falling.

He's a good catch. He kisses you again, smiling against your mouth. “Are you going to tell me what you were thinking about?”

You lean away from him, just a little, just enough to look at his face. You smile.

Steve smiles back. 

You stand, your arm gliding out of his grip until you can hold his hand, until you can tug at him until he stands, too. “No.” You press your palm to his and look at his hand, at his big fingers wrapped around yours, and you shake your head. You look up at him. “Not yet.”

Maybe not ever, and the way he looks at you makes you think that that’s just fine.


End file.
